


If Only He Knew We Cared

by life0nmars



Series: Shameless Sherlolly [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Fucking, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Holmes is insatiable, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, i really enjoyed writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/life0nmars/pseuds/life0nmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 3's drug binge, Molly Hooper is trying to get work done but is distracted by her own fury at Sherlock. When the object of her rage shows up in her lab, she has no choice but to tell him how she feels - but she doesn't mean for the whole truth to come out. What follows next is... well...</p><p>;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only He Knew We Cared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherlockian_87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_87/gifts).



Molly has the night shift again. She doesn’t mind it at all, being here alone with the dead. It sounds a bit creepy to come right out and say it that way, but it’s true. She’s always been a little bit awkward around the living - sort of nerdy, stumbling over her words, not saying the right things and just ending up flustered. But the dead don’t judge her. Here, at St. Bartholomew’s, she’s in her element. Her scientific mind is allowed to process, categorize, observe and record, without the distraction of trying to find conversation. Although to be honest, she does sometimes talk out loud as she’s working. She can’t decide whether it’s more weird to say she’s talking to herself, or talking to her patients.

Tonight she has a lot on her mind. A tall, concentrated enigma wrapped in a dark overcoat. Molly is making her rounds, checking her charts, wheeling a body out of cold storage to begin its post-mortem. Despite her general awkwardness, Molly is a very intelligent woman. She has enough mind-power to divide her attention and still do her job, and do it very well. So, as she begins the process on Mr. Lowery, 73, possible poisoning, the other half of her mind entertains her favorite sociopath.

She’s furious with him, of course. Just about everyone in their close-knit group is. Most of the people in Sherlock’s life had thought they lost him over two years ago. His apparent, dramatic suicide had sent shockwaves through everyone who knew him. Only a select few had been allowed to know the truth, and Molly was among them. Knowing his secret had been both exhilarating and extremely lonesome. She had to stand by and watch John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Anderson sink into self-blaming depression and try to claw their way out. The wait for his return had been sheer torture. She’d tried to move on, of course, knew that it was healthy, but there was always a pale-eyed shadow in the back of her mind just waiting for its chance to pounce. Tom had been a nice distraction but she knew she was placeholding. His smell wasn’t quite right, his voice was definitely not deep enough, and his mind was like a horse-drawn carriage compared to Sherlock’s bullet train. Watching him try to think at John’s wedding had been the last block to fall out of the precarious pedestal she’d placed him on. The entire mirage came crashing down and the only thing, the only man, left standing was Sherlock himself.

And then they lost him, again! He’d disappeared for months. No calls, no notes, nothing. Everyone in a post-traumatic-stress-driven panic. Whether that gorgeous idiot chose to believe it or not, there were people - a lot of people - who cared for him. Molly felt herself to be quite close to the top of that list.

And when the call came from John, telling her that they’d found him and exactly WHERE they’d found him, she barely kept her composure before disconnecting the call. Yes, of course, she would help. She would handle the piss-test of the man she desperately loved. But she couldn’t guarantee how she would handle the results of that piss-test.

Poorly. The answer to that had been poorly. There were words. And violence. And so, so much anger and hurt. He could justify it all he wanted, but the fact remained that he had damaged himself, on purpose. The man she would do anything to protect - kept his secret, alienated herself, suffered in silence. He took that and he took all the love everyone had for him, and he chucked it in the bin. “For a case.”

Still, she loves him. She always will.

Molly sighs and sets down her tools. She needs something from her adjacent lab, so she snaps her gloves off and shoots them into the nearest biohazard bin. She’s through the doors and searching through a cupboard before she realizes there is another presence in the room. A rustle of heavy wool fabric and a swish of cool air and then he’s there, beside her, leaning backwards against the countertop as she reaches up into the cupboard, those pale eyes flicking over her face, searching and cataloguing. Molly collects the few glass bottles she’d came in for and then slams them down onto the countertop in front of her. Her eyes are downcast and her breathing has hitched up. Her heartrate spikes at it always does in his presence, only this time the flush that is creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks is pure unadulterated rage.

“You’re angry with me.”

“What gave it away?”

He glances down at her shaking hands, still wrapped around the glass bottles on the countertop.

“Molly-”

“Sherlock, don’t. Just - just don’t. Please.” Without warning, hot, angry tears spring into her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the backs of her hands like a small child, sniffles, collects her bottles and turns sharply away. He is right on her heels as she reenters the morgue.

“I’ve… disappointed you.” That crease appears between his brows. He watches her reglove and begin working again on Mr. Lowery. She doesn’t respond. She has too much to say and can’t figure out how to say it.

“I think you should leave, Sherlock. I’ve work to do here. It’s - it’s not proper for you to be here.”

His hands are in the pockets of his overcoat. He spreads them wide from his body, looking down at the spotlessly polished morgue floor. The gesture is both exposing and resigning on his part. It says, “Whatever you want, Molly,” with just a hint of, “but please don’t turn me away.” As his coat opens, a waft of that familiar Sherlock scent hits her, mingled with formaldehyde and the sweet, lingering scent of the dead. It’s too much for her.

Unbidden images of his glorious form, paler than life, laid out in front of her on her slab flash in her mind and suddenly she’s sobbing. He’s there in an instant, carefully removing her gloves for her and shooting them into the biohazard bin before gathering her into his arms. He’s only slightly awkward as he shushes her, stroking strong hands down her back, sliding one up to cup the back of her neck. She’s helpless, paralyzed, clutching onto his suit jacket’s lapels inside his coat.

“Molly, I am… sorry. I know that you uphold these ideals of me and I’ve disappointed you. My behavior over these past few months has been reprehensible, but necessary. I needed to get myself into that situation and it needed to be believeable. The case required that I destroy my reputation, and the image you had of me has shattered-”

“Oh, you bloody idiot!” she shouts. “Your image?! You honestly believe I am THIS upset with you - over your IMAGE?!”

“Well, I-”

“Sherlock Holmes, I couldn’t care LESS about your bloody image!” She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself down enough to speak. They were going to have it out, and it’s just like Sherlock to barge in and make the choice that they were having it out right now. “You may think that the world and everyone in it just sees the genius detective in the silly hat. But Sherlock, I am not the rest of the world. You - you are so much - SO much more to me.” She’s leaning into him still, staring straight up into his face, into those cold yet beautiful eyes. Her long, honey-brown ponytail tickles the back of his hand as he presses it into the small of her back. “You didn’t disappoint me. You terrified me. I thought - I thought we’d - we’d -” her face crumples and she starts sobbing again, burying her face into his chest. She really hopes that his stupid purple shirt gets irreparably stained with her tears.

“You… were worried about me.” He sounds genuinely surprised, and puzzled.

“Of course I was worried about you!” she tells his chest. She takes another deep breath in through her somewhat stuffed up nose. Good detergent (she’s certain Mrs. Hudson is involved here), expensive body wash, and a trace of dusty parchment and burnt gunpowder flood her sinuses. She slowly lets the breath out through her mouth and then repeats the exercise a few more times, only hiccuping once or twice as her sobs die down. “Sherlock, I thought we’d lost you again, for good. You... were quite the spectacle at the wedding and… and then you were just... gone. Anyone could have found out you were alive, and they’d know John was off on his honeymoon leaving you alone, unprotected, and-”

“I can take care of myself-”

“and they could have kidnapped you and tortured you and killed you, or worse, and-”

“I’m perfectly capable of fending off any attackers-”

“and do you honestly expect me to be rational about the man that I-”

They both stop talking immediately, instantly tensing up in each others’ arms. “Molly,” Sherlock’s deep voice is very quiet. He takes a deep breath, his arm tightening slightly around her waist. “Are you… in love with me?”

A thousand needles send pinpricks of fear over her entire body. She screws her eyes shut and tries not to breathe. Maybe if she holds really still, he’ll forget that she’s even here. It’s a tactic she’s used countless times in her life before.

It doesn’t work.

His right hand is pressing her into him, and his left comes up to cup her face. His cool thumb brushes away yet another tiny tear that has begun a new furrow down her cheek. She can’t decide what to say. Inside her head she’s screaming, “For God’s sake, of course I’m in love with you, you complete dickhead!” and variations thereof, but the words just cannot force themselves past her lips. She slowly opens one puffy, brown eye to peek up at him. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting to see, maybe shock or outrage, perhaps even disgust, but it certainly isn’t the genuinely warm smirk that even touches his eyes. He brings his right hand up to mirror his left, his shoulders hunching as he leans down, and he’s kissing her.

At first, Molly Hooper is too stunned to react. She’s still clutching his lapels for support, her eyes have both popped open, and she’s not sure how long she’s been holding her breath for and Sherlock bloody Holmes is kissing her and she’s not kissing him back and what the hell is wrong with her?!

She finally pulls in a deep breath through her nose, his scent all around her, intoxicating her, slides her eyes shut and gives in to the kiss. She raises up on tip toe, slides her arms around his slim waist, and begins to move her lips against his. They move as though they have one mind, or as though they’ve both rehearsed this alone a thousand times, both of which may actually be true. She tilts her head to the right at the same time he does, both shyly sliding their tongues against one another, his slightly cool and hers still warm from crying. He slowly walks her backward until her back hits the cold metal of the freezer drawers. They break the kiss, panting against one another’s lips, foreheads pressed together. He’s still cupping her face as though it’s the most precious and most fragile thing he has ever held in his hands. “Yes,” she breathes, “I am. I always have been.” She slowly opens her eyes, pupils enormous in the dim light. What she sees is shocking.

Sherlock Holmes is silently weeping. His brows are creased, his eyes are still closed, and one single tear has escaped and is slowly tracking down the side of his nose. She unwraps one arm from his waist and carefully brings her hand up to wipe it away. He catches her hand with his and brings her palm to his lips, planting a soft kiss in its center. “Molly Hooper,” his low voice breaks just a bit, “I have always trusted you. It’s very simple for me to read when a person is lying to me even if it isn’t always clear to me what their motivations are for doing so. My trust is easily broken. I have a very literal and logical mind, which allows me to take things as I see them, at face value, and examine them. Humans are puzzles, wrapping themselves in lies and false morals until all that remain are shallow pools of ulterior motivation. But not you.” His eyes finally open and meet hers. “You… have never lied to me, Molly. You’ve never even thought about it once, have you?” She purses her lips in a small smile and gently shakes her head. “In my darkest hours, you have been there. Obviously you don’t care about my image because you were there when that very image was at its most tarnished. I have always been able to trust you and to rely on you, despite years of building up the idea in my own mind that I need nobody other than myself.” He kisses her hand, still clasped in his. “I have no basis for comparison, but if I were to call this a general hypothesis… I believe that I could say I may be… in love with you, as well.” He frowns slightly, then chuckles. “I honestly never expected to say those words.”

And this time, Molly is kissing Sherlock. She throws both arms around him once again, looping them up and pressing her hands into his shoulder blades, pulling him down to her. He grabs her by the hips and lifts her up, the knee-length skirt she’s worn today bunching up around her hips as her ankles lock in the small of his back. He’s using his body to pin her against the metal drawers once again, his growing arousal making itself known as he grinds his hips against her. Molly’s kiss is urgent, her hands moving up to tangle her fingers in those curls, just as she’s imagined every time she’s ever been near him. She’s moaning now, unashamedly, into his mouth as their tongues wrestle for dominance. His hands are sliding up and down her silken thigh-high stockings, gliding up the material to tease the bare skin above and then back down again.

They break for air, eyes locking brown to pale blue-green, pupils nearly eclipsing color. They are a panting mess of flushed cheeks and swollen, pink lips. Molly’s lab coat is off one shoulder, one of her shoes has slipped off behind Sherlock and clattered to the floor, stray wisps of her hair escaping from her ponytail and dancing on the breeze made by their breath. Her hands have gripped on to Sherlock’s hair, thoroughly destroying the careful order he usually maintained in those curls, now looking more like a dark mad-scientist halo surrounding his head. The normally stiff collar of his coat is flopped over on one side, his tailored purple shirt dampened from her earlier tears and rumpled inside his suit jacket.

“Seriously?” She knows as soon as the word leaves her mouth that it was the wrong one to use right now. She’s cocked it up again, just like she always does.

Sherlock’s only answer is a slow smile, his mouth still open as he catches his breath. He leans forward and catches her bottom lip between his teeth, running his tongue lightly across it before releasing it. The wet friction echoes right in her center and she whimpers against his open mouth. He chuckles low in his chest, that dark sound making the hair on the back of her neck stand up in a very, very nice way.

Even Molly can smell her own arousal. She can only imagine what that’s doing to Sherlock.

He starts kissing the right side of her neck, soft, open-mouthed kisses from just behind her ear leading down toward the collar of her lab coat, stopping at the place where her neck and shoulder meet to open his mouth wide and scrape his teeth across her flushed skin. Goosebumps rise on her arm under her lab coat, a thrill that flows all down the right side of her body straight to her toes. Her eyes unfocus and her lids slide shut as she gives in to the sensations he’s lavishing on her. Soon, however, her conscious mind swims to the surface and demands that she gets a few things straight before this gets too far.

Molly tugs on Sherlock’s now-crazy hair until he stops his ministrations with a grunt of protest and tilts his face back up to hers. She holds his head still despite his clear desire to continue, to keep his mouth on her, to kiss her and tease her and probably do all manner of unspeakable things to her if she would just release her hold. A fire is burning behind those ice-pale eyes as they meet hers. She has seen the look he’s now giving her in countless dreams, and here it finally is - in person - scorching into her and leaving a permanent mark on her soul.

She swallows hard. “Sherlock,” her voice is raw and almost embarrassingly needy, “stop. For a second. I - we - we need to - what are we doing, here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he purrs at her.

“Well I know what I want to be happening, of course. But you - I thought -”

“Please, Molly, I may have been voluntarily celibate for the last several years but I am by no means a virgin, despite the rumours. In my work it is beneficial to eliminate as many distractions as possible, love and sex being top of that list. However, if I were to be honest with you and with myself, ever since you helped me during my fall, you have been the greatest distraction I have ever encountered. In my mind palace there is an entire wing dedicated to you, Molly Hooper. I have every detail about you that I have ever observed stored away, easily accessible less than six seconds from the main entry. The great advantage of the mind palace, though, is its versatility - it can easily be added to. There are -” he flicks his gaze down her body, taking in her disheveled appearance and her thighs still squeezing around his waist “-several hundred more things that I would like to learn about you. Perhaps several thousand.” His voice drops to a barely audible rumble and he leans forward until his breath tickles her ear. “If you will have me, Molly, I would fuck you. For hours, days, years. I would learn everything about your body. Every little thing that drives you mad with lust. Please.” He leans back to take in her expression.

Molly has stopped breathing. Her dilated eyes are wide, her mouth almost comically slack. She blinks a couple of times, shuts her mouth with an audible click, and clears her throat. “Erm.” She tries again, eyes slowly focusing on his own. “Oh, God, yes,” she breathes.

He leans forward again, his soft, pouty lips meeting her own. Despite his past comments, he does not find Molly’s mouth to really be too small. He’d mostly said those things to cover up the fact that he was often staring at it, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Sherlock Holmes notices everything, and he has always noticed Molly. How could he not? She’s petite, has excellent skin, beautiful coloring. Any time he’s walked by behind her in the lab he’s tried to brush the back of his hand against her hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks - and it always is. She does not wear any artificial scent, which on others he finds repellant and distracting. She always smells good though, faintly of soap and lab chemicals, her shampoo and laundry detergent. It’s a smell that suggests “home.” But even more than the physical aspects of Ms. Hooper, Sherlock is drawn to her mind. She is just as awkward socially as he is, only more aware of it which causes her to trip over her own words sometimes - a trait he finds endearing. And most of all, Molly is a scientist. She is a doctor of medicine and intrinsically fascinated by all things chemistry and biology. If he wasn’t so afraid of attachment, Sherlock could imagine a future in which they would spend hours together discussing everything to do with his most beloved topic, and she could keep up with him. She is never disgusted by his experiments, but always interested, even supportive. Sherlock could never find Molly boring.

And now he’s kissing her. Finally, he’s kissing her. And she is definitely kissing him back, all slow and sensual, almost tender. She needs him to be wearing much less, so she starts pushing his overcoat off his shoulders. He takes the hint and lifts her down to the floor so it can land with a soft whump on the floor behind him. Next comes his suit jacket, and she’s starting on his shirt buttons by the time he gets a chance to begin undressing her too. Lab coat, light blue button-up blouse, and purple shirt soon join the pile of clothing on the morgue floor. He’s in his trousers and she in her skirt and bra, and they take a few moments to truly appreciate one another. He’s miles of pale skin, battle scars tracing their way across his chest and especially his back, twisted but fading strips having been flayed from him during his time fighting Moriarty’s network. A few dark wisps are all that he has in the way of chest hair. He is definitely thin, but he’s all lean muscle, solid and long in limb. His trousers are hanging off his hip bones in a way that is almost criminally sexy.

He’s gazing down at her, pale eyes hooded with lust, running just the tips of his fingers up and down her arms. It’s giving her goosebumps. Although Sherlock has mentioned (and he still regrets having done it) that her breasts are small, they aren’t out of proportion with the rest of her. Her light blue cotton bra isn’t anything fancy, but it looks perfect against the milky skin of her chest. She’s small and thin, almost willowy. He reaches down to the zip on the waistband of her khaki-colored skirt and slowly slides it down. She’s smiling up at him encouragingly, following suit with the front of his trousers. They both feel ridiculously shy, like teenagers having their first real sexual experience, giggling at one another as they simultaneously divest each other of their bottoms. Molly realizes that Sherlock wants her bra off but probably has very little experience with the fastenings, so she reaches behind her one-handed and flicks the hooks free. He immediately reaches up and slides it down her arms, flinging it down near the rest of their mess.

His pupils widen at the sight of her, just in the matching blue panties and those buff-colored thigh-high stockings. She’s flushing furiously, biting her lip, running her fingers down his lithe torso, boldly palming his prominent erection through his black boxer-briefs. His eyes roll back and his hands find their own way up to her perfect, small breasts, massaging them firmly and pulling back to gently tweak her nipples. This earns him a breathy “Ah!” so he does it again, rolling her nipples between finger and thumb, brushing the sensitive buds with his thumb tips. She gasps and closes her eyes, losing herself to the sensation of Sherlock, HER Sherlock, his hands on her, his cock outlined and straining against his pants as she traces its contours through the fabric.  
It isn’t long before he can’t take any more of this teasing. He drops to his knees in front of her and yanks down her panties, tossing them away as she steps out of them. The scent of her hits him full-force, a growl escaping him as he leans forward, hands on her thighs, pushing her legs slightly apart. It’s been several years, but Sherlock doesn’t forget anything he doesn’t find useless, and this is not a skill he’s ever wanted to delete. Completely unconscious moans escape him while he gets acquainted with the warm, soaking wet spot between Molly’s thighs. She falls back against the metal drawers once again, legs going weak, and Sherlock is kissing her outer lips, running his tongue softly up and down, teasing before dipping into her folds. “Oh my god,” she whispers, hands once again tangling in his hair, holding that beautiful head in place. She is sagging dangerously now, knees completely useless. Sherlock notices, of course, and reaches up to her hips to turn her around and guide her down onto his overcoat, spread out on the floor. Once she’s safely down he gets back to work. She leans up on her right arm, left hand fisting tight into his hair. He moans at the slight pain, sending deep vibrations through her and she cries out. He’s lapping firm stripes from just below her opening all the way up, swirling around her clit and back down, sucking and kissing with his lips. “Oh my fucking god, Sherlock, yeesss, fuck, just like that - oh!” she’s whimpering, legs starting to shake with her impending climax. And then his tongue flicks further down, softly teasing her ass hole, and she’s lost, falling back onto his coat, no longer able to support her own weight, and he’s tonguing her ass, that filthy fucking bastard, and it’s foreign and intimate and she’s never had anyone do that before and it’s Sherlock and his scent is wafting off his coat and his curls are in her hands and he’s relentlessly swirling that glorious tongue around and around her clit and it’s Sherlock for fuck’s sake and she’s coming, screaming his name, bucking her hips underneath his strong hands trying to hold her still as he oh-so-gently sucks her clit through her orgasm, keeping his warm mouth on her but as still as possible and he’s definitely filing that away for future use.

She’s a total rag doll. Her consciousness is floating somewhere above them, every muscle in her body completely relaxed. As she slowly falls back down to earth there is one thing on her mind - she has to know what the world’s only consulting detective’s cock tastes like.

He’s reclined next to her on his coat, completely naked now, having removed the last bits of clothing from himself while she was indisposed. Sherlock normally looks smug, but this - THIS is a new look for him. This is smugness and pride and lust and wonder as he’s staring down at her. She slowly opens her eyes and then reaches up to grab him, needing to taste herself in his mouth, and he complies, leaning down for an absolutely messy kiss. “You… are amazing,” she says sincerely.

“Oh I know,” he replies, and she slaps him on the shoulder before throwing him down onto his back on the coat. He chuckles darkly, thoroughly enjoying himself as she takes charge. Her poor ponytail is unrecoverable at this point, but she’s pulling her hair band out and re-twisting her locks into a messy bun and Sherlock knows what’s coming next. He’s nervous of course, and very excited, and apprehensive. He’s been celibate for so long that he isn’t sure how long he can last - he’d already just about come purely from watching Molly. “Erm…” he begins.

“Shh, I know. It’s okay. Really. It’s quite all right if you - you know. Quickly, I mean. I’m not expecting any miracles. Except for what you just did there. That - that was definitely a religious experience.”

He giggles. God help him, he giggles like a nervous prom date. This is ridiculous, they are grown adults and they’re acting like a couple of kids. It’s almost like they’ve never -

And then it hits him. It’s not because they’ve never had sex before, with other people. It’s because this is their first time together. And it’s the first time Sherlock has ever had a sexual experience with someone he’s completely in love with. This realization takes his breath away, just for a moment, and she doesn’t notice because she’s busy bending her head to her task.

God he’s gorgeous. He’s lying down on his coat, stark-bollocks-naked on her morgue floor, one long leg stretched out and the other propped up at the knee. He’s resting his weight on his elbows so that he can watch her as she gets to work on him. He looks painfully hard, cock twitching in anticipation, and what a specimen it is. If a cock could be called graceful, that is the word Molly would use. It’s just as beautifully formed as the rest of him, probably about seven inches long (no wonder he’s so smug all the time), and what appears to be a perfect thickness. Her mouth actually waters at the sight. She leans down, gripping him firmly in one small hand, sliding it up and down on him. As she licks the clear drop of precum beading at the head, she peeks up at his face. His eyes are closed, mouth hanging open, breathing softly and evenly, letting the physical sensation take hold of him. She wants to take a picture of that face and set it as his contact photo in her mobile.

She swirls her tongue around the head and then takes it into her warm, soft mouth. Sherlock actually whimpers at the enveloping wetness. He’s forgotten how good this can feel, and knowing that it’s Molly Hooper firmly licking and sucking his dick is indescribably wonderful. One of her small hands is cupping his bollocks, gently massaging them, teasing a finger down behind them, gently pressing against his opening. She had correctly guessed that his enthusiasm for that particular area of her own anatomy was a request for attention on his. Her other hand is keeping pace with her lips, her tongue licking the underside of his head every time she bobs up and down, cheeks hollowed and just the right amount of suction drawing long, deep groans from his throat. She moans in reply, the vibrations making his eyes lose focus behind his closed lids. He gives up trying to prop himself up to watch since he can’t use his vision anyway, and flops backward onto his coat, freeing his hands to stroke her hair, cup her beautiful face, run his cool fingers up and down her arms. Molly is absolutely LOVING the feeling of Sherlock’s perfect cock sliding in and out of her mouth. He is utterly at her mercy, coming apart beneath her, and it’s making her feel very, very warm.

“Molly, I can’t hold on much longer. I can’t - ah!” The warning does nothing to discourage her and she forces as much of his length into her throat as she can, swallowing him in, eyes watering slightly as he comes hard down her throat. She imagines she looks just as insufferably proud of herself as he had just a few minutes ago as she slides off him, licking him clean, careful not to be too rough with his oversensitized member.

She crawls up on top of him and lays her head on his pale chest. He does not hesitate to wrap his long arms around her, pulling her close and breathing in the scent of her hair. They lay like that for several minutes, both sated and drowsy, endorphins running high.

“Erm, Molly…”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“It doesn’t seem to have, erm… that is…” he sighs in exasperation, then grabs her hand and unceremoniously dumps it back onto his cock, making himself jump at the contact.

He’s hard again. Or more accurately, she’s pretty sure he’s STILL hard. She blinks in surprise and leans up to look at his face. He looks a bit contrite, and slightly worried, and of course just a bit smug. She doesn’t blame him at all. That is some stamina coming from someone who can’t even remember the last time he had a wank.

Wordlessly, she covers his mouth with her own, sliding her tongue against his, the salty flavors of each other mingling delightfully in their mouths. She climbs fully on top of him, straddling him, rubbing her still very wet folds up and down his length as he thrusts in counterpoint. She breaks their messy kiss and, leaning over him, whispers, “Are we doing this?”

His large, cool hands slide down her sides to cup her small bum. He grips her tight and rocks her against his throbbing length. “Problem?”

“You have no idea how much of a problem that isn’t.”

He chuckles again, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and reverberating through hers. She reaches down and grips him, lining him up with her opening, and then he’s slowly pushing in to her, inch by inch, stretching her and filling her up. He watches her face as her eyes slide shut, her jaw drops, soft mouth open in a silent gasp. A small crease appears between her brows as their hips meet, and he stills for a moment to allow her to adjust to his significant size. He reaches one hand up to her cheek and is surprised to find wetness there - she’s crying again?

“Molly, am I hurting you? What’s wrong?” He’s utterly flummoxed.

“No, god, no, not at all, just - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to start crying, again, I mean it’s just that - ugh, god, Sherlock, I can’t believe… you’re inside of me. It’s - I’ve wanted this for so long, and you feel… so bloody good.” She laughs softly, opening her eyes to meet his, smiling despite the few tears that had escaped to reassure him. “I’m sorry I’m emotional over this. You must be really… confused.”

“Well, yes, of course. You know me better than just about anyone. Naturally I’m confused. Emotional reactions don’t always make sense to me, having very little experience with them myself, and-”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

He grins up at her and begins to move, slowly at first, letting her feel every inch of him, angling himself to hit that spot inside, knowing by her small gasps that he’s on target. They stare into each others’ eyes as they move leisurely against one another, in perfect rhythm. It’s almost too much for her and it’s definitely too much for him, but still their gazes remain locked, earth to ice, absorbing each others’ reactions and filing them away for future reference. Neither of them can at all help the absolutely wicked grins that spread over their faces. His hands are gripping tight to her arse, guiding her down on him; her forearms are framing his face, hands gently playing with his hair once more. She gasps as he picks up speed, bouncing her enthusiastically up and down on his cock. “Oh - fuck - Sherlock - oh - god - I’m - gonna - ah - ah - ahhhh!” and she’s clenching around him, abdominal muscles spasming, gripping his hair tight, eyes finally squeezing shut as her orgasm takes over and he’s not long after, his pounding rhythm picking up and then stuttering to a deep plunging halt as he empties himself into her. She collapses onto his chest in a boneless heap and he wraps his arms around her again, sweaty skin sliding against her back.

Several minutes later Molly mumbles, “Oh you have GOT to be kidding me.” And the reason she is mumbling this is because Sherlock, having apparently not quite satisfied the beast that he’s woken in himself, is gently thrusting in and out of her again as they hadn’t disconnected quite yet from the last time. His responding laugh is absolutely sinful and he rolls them over so she’s once again on her back underneath him. “I fucking love you,” she breathes as he rears up, runs his hands through his wild hair, and just keeps his arms behind his head, obscene smacking sounds of skin on skin as he slams his hips into hers. Her ankles are crossed behind his back, holding herself steady while he fucks her, looking absolutely relaxed about the entire affair. He’s looking down at her and he’s giggling, and so is she because this ridiculous man, this wonderful, brilliant man, this gorgeous, sexy genius refuses to stop fucking her. His hips are grinding into hers, rolling sinuously, the dim lights making his pale skin absolutely glow with post- and mid-coital sweat. Her small, perfect tits bounce with every snap of her hips down to meet his own, a lovely pink flush covering her entire chest and neck, giving her a beautiful glow. Her hands fling out to grab onto something, anything, and she finds the sleeve of his overcoat and grips it, bringing it to her mouth and biting down on it to try to stifle the animalistic moans that he’s wringing out of her. She has never heard herself make these noises before and they are just obscene.  
He reaches down finally and throws her legs over his shoulders, leaning down onto his forearms, and at this new angle the head of his cock is hitting the spot inside her with every fucking thrust, over and over and over, and he picks up his pace to a nearly inhuman speed and all she can do is whimper into the coat sleeve, her hands have now reached around to his back and her nails are digging furrows into his pale, scarred skin, creating new bloody gouges to compete with the old ones. Her eyes have rolled back into her head and her abdominal muscles are clenching and she’s spasming and if Sherlock didn’t know any better he would swear Molly is having a seizure but he knows she isn’t, she’s just been mid-mind-shattering-orgasm for approximately 47 seconds now. He leans down to her ear and whispers hoarsely, “Let it go, Molly Hooper. Let it go for me,” and she’s screaming as he slams into her a final time, exploding into her yet again. Sherlock is completely out of breath, panting and shuddering, a few small sobs escaping from his lips, and then he’s laughing uncontrollably. He collapses off to her side, rolling her over to face him and cradling her in his arms. Random syllables are forcing themselves out of her and she has yet to relinquish the death-grip that she has on his poor back. Finally she draws in a very, very deep breath and as she lets it out she moans, “Ooohhhhhh myyyyyyy goooooooood.” Sherlock is still giggling, and finally she starts to as well, and tears are running down both of their faces, and every time they think they’re done they catch each others’ eye and it starts them off again.

Eventually, exhausted, their hysterics die down enough for them to attempt conversation. “Sherlock, what - I’m serious, WHAT - just happened?”

“I believe - ah!” he slides his finally softening cock out of her still-quivering entrance, “that was sex. Although I could be mistaken, I haven’t a whole lot of experience in that area.”

“Bull. Shit.”

“And I must say, Ms. Hooper, the absolute filth that has been spewing from your perfect mouth is shocking, to say the least.”

“Oh my god.”

“Now, now, no need to be self-conscious-”

“No, Sherlock!”

“I’m sure lots of perfectly polite young women, in the throes of passion-”

“SHERLOCK.”

“What, Molly?”

“MR. LOWERY!!!”


End file.
